~ Revenge of the Proletariat ~

He rose up slowly from the ground, gradually taking shape, until he reached his full height and girth and brightness, a giant red and white beacon in the pitch-black night. Then the candy-striped cane clutched in his right hand began to dance in the icy December wind, and his whole body was rocking back and forth on unsteady feet. Like a drunken man belying the cold, his inane grin and his large, wide-open eyes remained fixed. From the dining room window of his Georgian ground floor flat in the heart of the New Town of Edinburgh, Scott stood with his hands on his hips, staring into the black pools of the intruder’s eyes. ‘What ees, Scottee?’ asked Pedro. Careful not to upset the lit candelabra, Pedro eased back his chair, rose up and skirted the dining room table to stand behind Scott and peer over the taller man’s shoulder. ‘What ees?’ repeated Pedro, his body pressed against Scott’s back, one arm around his partner’s waist. ‘It’s a six-foot high, inflatable Santa Claus, that’s what it blasted well is,’ Scott replied, his voice louder and more shrill than he had intended. ‘Ah, Santa Claus! For Chreestmas! ’Ow nice!’ Scott wriggled away from Pedro and snorted in anger. ‘No, not nice, Pedro,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘An insult left by those... those pesky proles from the basement.’ Pedro looked hurt. ‘’Ow you mean insult?’ he squeaked. ‘I mean they’ve done this deliberately to annoy me... to annoy us. According to nosey old Doris from upstairs, they’ve gone away for Christmas and New Year... to some place where the hoi polloi congregate... Athens, I think...’ ‘Athens ees beautiful ceety, Scottee. Beautiful like Edinburgh, but not so cold, I theenk.’ ‘Yes, yes, Pedro. The point is they’ve gone off to wherever it is and left us to face this... this tacky monstrosity. Do you realise it’ll be there staring at us every night we sit down to dine? And what about on Christmas day? Mummy and my sister, Abigail, will be coming to visit. What will they think? And then there’s our little Hogmanay party. All our guests will be looking out onto that... that thing. It’ll block out the view of my lovely garden, which I’d intended to decorate with strings of fairy lights. I’ve even gone to B&Q and bought the dratted lights. Oh, damn and blast them! Those... those bloody people!’ ‘But if they away, Scottee, ’ow does Santa come alive and light up so?’ ‘Oh, you are a cretin, Pedro, aren’t you? Because they’ve got it on a blasted timer, haven’t they? It’ll inflate at this time every evening until they take the eyesore down. Damn them to hell!’ Scott couldn’t take his eyes off the swaying figure. It had been erected and tied with guy ropes on the narrow, raised garden belonging to his downstairs neighbours. He knew it had been planted on that exact spot in front of his dining room window in order to cause him the maximum annoyance. Pedro had his hurt face on again. But then he had an idea and smiled. ‘If they away, Scottee, maybe we go down there and cut the wires or steek a peen in Santa – or something...’ ‘No, no, no, Pedro. Don’t you see that’s exactly what they want us to do? Then they’ll be able to call the Police...’ ‘Like you called the Policia about them?’ ‘Well, yes...’ ‘And tell the Policia lies about them? Theengs they didn’t do, like call us pooves and queers and threaten us?’ ‘Yes, but...’ ‘And get me to tell same lies? Perhaps even get me into trouble for making false... what you say... false alligators?’ ‘Now, look here, Pedro. All of that was necessary. They interfered with my right to screen off their tiddly piece of ground from my... from our fairy garden...’ ‘And block out their light, sí?’ ‘That’s enough, Pedro! Sending a letter through their solicitors, indeed. Who do those people think they are? How could they afford a solicitor anyway? For that matter, where did oiks like that get the money to buy a property in the New Town? That sort shouldn’t be allowed...’ ‘Maybe they work ’ard for their money, Scottee. Like I do.’ ‘Yes, yes, we all work hard...’ ‘Where you get your money, Scottee? You forever saying you have lots of eet.’ ‘My money is inherited, Pedro. It was bequeathed to me on Daddy’s death, in the same way that Daddy inherited on his father’s death. It’s proper money. What we call old money. Not the pay packet kind that those chavs get their grubby hands...’ ‘So you theenk you ees like royalty... no, no, how you say it... like nobeelity? Same as in Spain, cí’ ‘Mmm. Yes, something like that, I suppose.’ Scott took one last look at the monstrosity. It seemed to be waving and nodding to him. ‘Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas, Mr Scott! Ho, ho, ho!’ he was sure he could hear it mocking. He closed the carefully restored Georgian shutters to block out the sight and the imaginary sound. I think I’ll sell up in the New Year, he said to himself. Buy a house out in the country, perhaps. Somewhere not infested by blasted proles. Get myself a new boyfriend while I’m at it. A younger model. That Pedro is getting too uppity for my liking. He doesn’t seem to remember where his bread is buttered. The boy’s running to fat as well. But what does one expect with the lower classes? Spanish waiters, huh. They’re only good for one thing.